


Sunspots

by aPaperCupCut



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Also i have a crush on charlie too., Charlie is a goober. Willow is..... um...... def nerodivergent, F/F, Just so yknow i hate this fic???? Cuz its sad. I didnt want it to be sad, Little bit of the other characters too, Now im gonna go cry byyye, Pfffft posting this at 1 am cuz idc!!!!!, Uhhhh...... slightly nonconsensual but not really, Willow is me. I have bad mood swings and guess wbat she does too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:56:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10631682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: Willow has always been a monster, no matter what skin one may dress her up in. Charlie helps her to forget about it, for a little while.The one where Willow falls in love with a shade and the shade has a favourite.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CravenWyvern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/gifts).



> Willow is a really unreliable narrator.

Cool hands, pressing against a hot, bespeckled cheek. She did not move.

 

A whisper of breath against her neck, thin and intangible, fraught with spinning shades. Her still, orb-like, glazed white eyes, blind and piercing, stared forward. She did not breathe.

 

The shadow seemed to smile, smirking almost as if She had won. Had She? Willow did not know.

 

The Throne was a robe of chains, a cage so neatly set and clutching. She had been here for so long, but the echo of past tortures had been here longer. Many others had inhabited this Throne of needles and thorns, and She had seen many pass into Her clutches.

 

Willow would not fall. She could not fall.

 

She would set the Worlds aflame before she let some nitwit ghost touch her soul, her mind.

 

She didn't stop smiling. Instead, She seemed to fawn, draping Her body over Willow’s corpse and tomb.

 

The mirror below their feet seemed to immerse her, and Willow ignored the feeling of nonexistent hands, tugging insistently at her cheeks, in favour of watching the fools. They danced about like marionettes, maneuvered with wire strings and chuckling shadows.

 

Willow didn't know their names. (At least, not yet.) All she knew she had hidden away, in a vicious effort to spite the shade that rested at her knee. But all it did was make Her smirk, and Willow could not retrieve that which she had forgotten.

 

So she watched the little man, jumping about and terrified and enthralled with the strange machines he crafted. She watched him ambivalently, almost bemused. His companion, however, incited a tentative rage, from so long ago that she could only vaguely recall. She tried not to peer too closely at the tall, elderly man, however, because She did not approve. And when She did not approve, She went out and killed the helpless little pawns.

 

Willow did not like that; grief would freeze the flame in her heart, and only when they came stumbling back into the Worlds did she brighten again. Willow did not know them, but they were innocent - they were already so vulnerable, why make things more difficult than they already were? So Willow turned a blind eye to the hated enigma, instead amusing herself with the insipid and pointless actions of the likes of the scientist.

 

The little girl, with her ghost, was accompanied by the old librarian; they were quiet, but could sometimes fill in Willow’s memories of home whenever the Shadows grew too loud and She had disappeared, evaporating into fine black mist.

 

The robot, clanking and jostling about, lonely and alone and correctly so, gave her a laugh occasionally with his ridiculous feats. There was no point in torturing a captured bird, no point in tracking other lonely pawns just to murder them.

 

Ah. She was getting too sorrowful for Her taste again. Her head was painfully pulled away from the mirror, black lips forced upon her forehead with surprising tenderness. Willow stayed still, harsh tendrils of shadows biting into her arms from the Throne.

 

Then, releasing her, the shade sighed. She drifted away, expression devoid of Her usual casual smile. Willow felt a twang of concern, but smiled to show her gratitude. Always, her father used to say, always show your gratitude and relief with a smile. He almost always said that; ‘always smile,’ was practically his motto.

 

She seemed to be cheered by Willow’s paltry efforts, again returning to her side and smiling.

 

Down in the pool of silk and oil, a beaver thumped its tail and hummed against the mime’s grinning face. Willow wondered when the honeymoon would end.

 

Across the sea and beyond the mountains, a wandering Viking raided what she presumed to be an abandoned camp. When a terrified giant of a man returned to the camp in the dark, the two faced off before drowning in a vast ocean of silence. Willow was sure that the two would calm soon enough.

 

All these people…. All these pawns…. Wandering about her Worlds, blind to their eternal loneliness except for those random moments of luck wherein another character resurrected on their land. Willow remembered that, but could not recall her own pain. Pain was past, except for the painful shade that hummed in the night and abandoned her at dawn.

 

Perhaps the little scientist and his Tall man would find a way; after all, Willow was getting tired of their constant isolation. It was never funny, not like when they laughed and smiled and fought for each other and died for each other - it was even better when they nursed each other, especially when one was a mad fool, a hopeless case.

 

The shadows stirred -  _ They _ stirred. She rumbled against Willow’s chest, no doubt sensing the mounting tension.

 

It wouldn't be giving in if she wanted it, right? After all, it wasn't like Willow was letting that wicked ghost taste her; she was just tempting that which was already tempted. She was setting into motion what was already in motion.

 

And so Willow gave the Key, beckoning it down, down, into that little madman’s hands and giving the Tall man hopeless hope once more.

 

The shade chuckled, laughed, and sighed in pleasure. She spoke her nonsensical tongue to Willow, and for a short yet sweet time, She didn't leave.

 

But ah, time passed in nary a moment’s hour.

 

Wilson. That despicable child, fraught with some misguided desperation, called forth an innocent. A complete innocent, one long since passed and at peace.

 

The child was quiet at first, no doubt shocked at its own life - after all, they had been dead for who knew how long. Willow, however, was beset by anger; that one she had never known, but seeing something,  that which had been at peace now disturbed, roused her ire.

 

Maybe Willow did not quite know why she grew so enraged by Wilson's actions, but she did know that she could  _ change _ things in the outside Worlds. She could change the weather, the herds, the direction of the packs of hounds and the migration of the Giants.

 

She had not fallen to the Shadows - no, never. And She had gone strangely silent over the matter, so Willow wasn't falling to Her either. The only source of her unknown irritation was herself. And so Willow sent in the bloody hounds.

 

The little pawns survived, of course, not that she had expected otherwise. They survived her senseless anger, which lived and died in a flash. She supposed that the child had soothed it; they seemed happy, despite being dragged back into the horrible waking World.

 

But ah, the Door was already almost done - almost created, almost ready. Willow was savoring the moment, more excited than she had ever been in her entire life. They would all gather together, and would provide cheer and a laugh.

 

But the night before the final piece was to go in (the Key, her Key), the nightshade poisoned the little fools. In the night, the fire went out and a crackling of bone interrupted the scientist’s dreams. He was dead in an instant. The Tall gentleman rushed away, the child held in his trembling stick-arms, but he died just before sunrise.

 

The child wandered away, isolating themself inside the hollow of an abandoned spider nest.

 

The shade returned home with blood on Her claws and a diseased smile, a smile sprouting from Willow’s pain, creased across Her face.

 

Willow grew cold. The scientist managed to join forces with Viking and strongman, and the Tall gentleman found the child again, even settling with the librarian and the girl, but it wasn't the same.

 

They were supposed to unlock the Door! Unite the Worlds!

 

(Free her!)

 

Instead, they wandered about like great big buffoons, fools with no direction or humour! Their shallow contentment, which hid that festering pit of despair and hopelessness, was now insipid instead of funny, annoying instead of calming.

 

She wanted to-- to--

 

A press of cold against her temple, a smooth hand against her trembling arm. A soft sigh in her lanky hair, and She ran her other arm ‘round her shoulders.

 

Willow relaxed without meaning to, but made no sound and stayed still. When She finally calmed her ministrations, Willow held Her hand with something like gratitude. (She felt entirely too much gratitude for Her. Too much relief.)

 

Night and day and night again, all eclipsing in the pool below. She would never feel the sunlight again, would never hear the howls of the beasts which haunted her when She left. She would never set the world aflame again, would never watch the little catcoon spasm in heat-filled pain, then once again in exhausted ecstasy at death.

 

The ghost danced about her, listening to a song only She could hear. Willow wondered how She was able to leave, why (She was able to desert her) Willow did not yet know how as well. (For they were all bound here, in some way or another)

 

Maybe She sensed her simmering, barely boiling but not quite. Regardless, She abandoned her witch’s spin in favour of laying Herself upon Willow’s lap.

 

Willow sighed. “I don't even know your name, y’know.”

 

The shadow cocked Her head, face blank except for that knowing smile.

 

“You could tell me.” Willow paused. “You could tell me…”

 

A light lit up in Her curtained eyes, an all knowing look, slightly twisted by some strange black humour, enveloped Her smile.

 

She knew what Willow wanted. After all, Willow didn't care about names, and although she could deny it all she wanted, She could read her like an open book.

 

What Willow wanted was freedom. What Willow wanted was the sun.

 

What Willow wanted was to-- (leave) to-- (escape) to finally feel the flames lick her flesh and finally--

 

(To finally talk to someone, to have Her talk back, to speak and to be heard, to be spoken to and to listen, and she wanted it to be with Her)

 

The shade seemed to laugh, soundlessly, and She pressed Her bone-white cheek against her thigh.

 

And then she was swept away, by black hands squeezing around her middle, and then there was light.

 

Her face was warm, and her back was on something soft. Her bones felt like warm iron, hard and relaxed. She opened her eyes to the blue, blue sky above and nearly quaked with-- something.

 

She rose, and hiding in the long shadows of the surrounding forest, the shade smiled, as She always did.

 

Willow found that returning was easy, although it made her shake harshly against the Throne. Flinting back to the Worlds above was even easier. Things were different up there; she could summon most things at will, just like in the Throne chamber, but right in front of her.

 

A pond revealed to her just how much she had changed, yet she knew she had not changed at all. Her eyes were the pitch of white foam, and her mouth seemed wrong. If her dress acted strangely and her hair twined about her head like the fire she so loved, she did not notice.

 

Willow danced about the world, lighting fires that she sat back and watched with her heart wonderfully held in her mouth. She avoided others, afraid of-- something, and always returned after only an hour or so of her free celebration.

 

The shade seemed content to lean back and watch her, even allowing her to lead the Tall gentleman and his convoy back to the Door, with tracks and clever trails disguised as animal footprints.

 

She returned from one visit, invigorated and exalted, to the shade gazing at her almost sadly. Willow leaned back on the Throne she knew she had never left, concern cluttering her mind.

 

She draped her deathly snake-like body over Willow, hands reaching up to lightly brush her cheeks. Her breath whistled in and out of Her smiling mouth, and a pressure formed in the forefront of Willow’s skull.

 

Everything seemed to narrow down, funneling, and black crept and streamed at the corners of her vision. There was a ringing in her ears, and all she could see clearly were the shade’s luminous eyes. Everything else was a blur, a smear, even as her eyes jumped around randomly.

 

And then the shade kissed her, and all thought went out of her head, and a ghost was whispering so sadly in her lungs.

 

And then the world was bare and empty, and she was sighing away. Drifting away, gracefully gliding away, like She always did that and like Willow always felt like that.

 

Willow was frozen, unmoving and unbreathing. She had vowed to not let the ghost touch her, hadn't she, had promised she would not fall, unlike all the others before--

 

But how had the others fallen?  _ They  _ left her alone, and only the ghost really bothered her--

 

She had vowed that She would not  _ Touch _ her, wouldn't grasp her throat and lungs so tightly, ever.

 

(But when was the last time she had thought about her vow?)

 

Everything was dizzy with tight fear, a spinning maelstrom of hot air and even hotter sweat. The shade had left her behind, and Willow was alone with only her thoughts and confusion.

 

She had to do something--  _ something…. _

 

The Tall gentleman was a stark figure, cut out like a bit of black fabric against the washed out sky. Willow had never approached anyone else before, but something told her he knew the answers to her questions. And so she searched him out, finding him in the empty plains and hollow valleys left behind by the Giant’s bones.

 

A crunch of dry grass. “I almost didn't think you would figure out how to even project, much less work up the courage to approach me.”

 

Willow didn't reply. The man turned to face her. His face was lined with deep rivers of age. She thought that it suited him.

 

“So. What do you wish to ask, little firestarter?”

 

Willow did not reply.

 

“Well, you  _ are _ out here for a reason, correct? I doubt Charlie would let you wander far, she has gotten quite fond of you.” His eye twitched at her silence.

 

And now he refused to go on, and they dropped into silence like a wash of cold wind in the valley.

 

“....Charlie is her name?”

 

The Tall man blinked. “....Yes. I've known her for a very long time. Is that your only question?”

 

“No. I wanted to know…. Who were the others?” That first statement was a lie. She had wanted to know that.  _ (Charlie….) _

 

“You don't know?” He quirked a thinning eyebrow. “I should think you knew; after all, you know who I am, don't you?”

 

She stayed still. Whatever he saw seemed to sadden him, which he covered with a sarcastic smirk. (She didn't think he would ever be able to hide his real expressions - his eyes glittered with it.)

 

He nodded, once, gentle. “The Throne is a brutal force of change and stagnation, of erosion and regret. I would not doubt that Charlie would try her best to wipe away any regret; as I have said before, she _ is  _ very fond of you.”

 

“You were the first, weren't you. That's why she doesn't like you.” Willow inhaled deeply. “Tell me. Who is she? Who are you?

 

“Why are we here?”

 

Maxwell - for he was Maxwell, a meaningless name just like ‘Wilson,’ just like ‘Willow,’ - bowed, sinking onto his knees with a flourish. Avid and with her whole heart following him, she slumped down as well, her dress draping over her legs like fine silk sheets.

 

“I am Maxwell. I was William Carter. I was…. a foolish man, heady with my own power.” His eyes glinted. “I made a mistake, foolish and idiotic as I was. Charlie…. she was dragged in. Collateral.”

 

He seemed to wrap up into himself, arms sticking out and legs tightening towards his center. Willow watched him with numbness, and she listened to all the words in between.

 

“Why we are here…. Good question. One I do not have the answer to.”

 

The wind whistled through the canyon, and the grass wisped about them like fog on the beach.

 

Willow stared at the speckles of dirt between the strands. Miniscule insects crawled about, oblivious to the Tall man's plight. To her plight. (To Charlie's plight)

 

A creaking, shuffling movement, and the Tall gentleman rose on his stiff, thin legs.

 

He rocked for moment, seemingly nervous, before saying, “I really must be going. I have answered your questions, have I not?

 

“I---”

 

A hand - her hand - snaked out, gripping his stained sleeve with a brown fist.

 

“Who else has been on the Throne? Wilson was, wasn't he?”

 

Maxwell's eyes widened, milky and bulbous, and he stuttered out, “How do you know that man’s name? You did not even recognize  _ my _ name!”

 

Willow shook her head, tugging the gentleman closer.

 

“Yes! Yes. He was…. A very peculiar King. I believe you've cut a much more impressive figure!”

 

“Flattery ain't getting you nowhere.” With that, she released him.

 

He stumbled away, a great deal more harassed looking, and just before he left she thought she heard him mutter,  _ I see why you like her, Charlie. _

 

The Throne chamber was empty, bereft of the shade that taunted her and teased her and that had made her Fall.

 

Geeze. She'd Fallen, and she had not even so much as noticed.

 

Guilt, uniform and unknown in origin, washed over her like a wave of liqueur down her throat. She'd Fallen. Who knew what would happen next?

 

Knowing her memory had left even bigger chunks out of her conscious than she had thought was uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable was knowing that she had known Wilson and Maxwell's  _ names _ before even truly  _ knowing _ their names.

 

She could understand why Charlie didn't like the two now. Maxwell…. In person, he was less charismatic and more disturbing, and she felt unnerved after the encounter. Wilson was already creepy enough from afar; who knew what he was like close up?

 

She didn't want to know.

 

She leaned back on the Throne, eyes glazed and staring at nothing. Thoughts raced around inside her head, and as she grew tired of the unwelcome disturbance she turned her gaze to the mirror of oil below her feet. Without proper focus and attention, the image spun disconcertingly between images of the Caves to images of the camps and their inhabitants to creatures wandering about the many forests.

 

Before long, a hand rested softly at the nape of her neck, and Willow, as was custom of them, did not move. Perhaps Charlie sensed the strange dissonance, the strange forced stillness Willow fought to keep, for She was soon leaning down, brushing limp hair away and pressing a short comfort onto Willow’s temple.

 

Willow sucked in a breath, and Charlie met her gaze with a thoughtful expression, devoid of Her usual smile. She knew, didn't She? That Willow knew her name now, and didn't that make all the difference?

 

(But she never cared about names - they were just words stuck onto you from birth, and you never chose it, so why did so many place importance onto it?)

 

_ (She cared about this name.) _

 

Charlie smiled, that smile that was a smirk and yet it was almost a congratulations, and withdrew her touch. Willow stayed as still as ever.

 

“Charlie?” Willow’s mouth moved mindlessly, her words breaking the silence that so often settled between them.

 

Charlie seemed to jump, whipping her head to stare at Willow with wide eyes. Willow stared back.

 

The ghost crept to her, resting her forearms against Willow’s lap without thought, without hesitation. She stared up at her with something in the line of her mouth, and her orb-like, black eyes focused on Willow unnervingly.

 

She smiled.

 

The ghost did not seem upset by Willow’s exchange with Maxwell; if anything, She was amused. In much the same way, She had no real reaction to Her name; after all, names mattered even less to Her than they did to Willow.

 

Willow had thought that things would change - perhaps She would leave, permanently, or perhaps She would finally speak in a mortal tongue. But nothing changed; Willow continued visiting the Worlds and watching the pawns, and even hung about Maxwell occasionally. Charlie continued with Her absences and continued spending time around Willow.

 

Willow didn't understand.

 

Perhaps she was frustrated. After all, Willow had found Charlie's name, on her own, with little help from the person that had the name in the first place.

 

Perhaps it was because Willow had Fallen and no one seemed to care - it didn't seem to even  _ matter. _ If it didn't mattered, why had Willow been so afraid? It didn't make sense, and Willow had no patience for nonsensical things.

 

But she didn't have much time for her needless irritations; something had changed, just not between her and Charlie.

 

Wilson had somehow, at some unknowable point, snuck into the five Underworlds.

 

At first, of course, Willow hadn't even noticed. It was only when something seemed to  _ scream _ in her ears that she awoke to what  _ They _ had been muttering about. By then, Wilson was at the Third World and was quickly gaining ground.

 

And to think, just a short time before she had been hoping to never meet the little madman face-to-face! What horrific irony.

 

Charlie accompanied her, of course. The nightshade hid in Willow’s long shadow, watching as she trekked through crunching snow, wrapped up in a coat that She had draped across her shoulders as soon as they had reached the surface.

 

Wilson was hunkered over, face thick with scruff and hair sticking out in every direction. She could not see his face.

 

She stopped just behind him, mist rising softly on every exhale. He did not notice her presence, completely consumed by his tinkering hands. She did not know what he was building.

 

Then he perked up, head raising, but he refused to look at her.

 

“If you’re just going to stand there for no good reason, I suggest you do so elsewhere.” His voice was a great deal rougher than Maxwell’s, and even more unnerving. Maxwell played the ‘gentleman’ role like he had always yearned to be that which he pretended to be, but his eyes, so watery and aged, kept his immature and nativity alive and well, like a droplet of water formed around algae. Wilson, however….

 

“I'm here for a reason.” She paused to keep a cough in, forcing any discomfort out of her voice with a deathly self-control. “Why are you here?”

 

Wilson jumped, like he had, within the few seconds before she had spoken, forgotten about her. He snorted at her question.

 

“Why would I  _ not _ be here?” He launched his body around, crusted face presented to her, teeth bared. “This  _ is _ the way out, and you can't stop me!”

 

With that, he turned right ‘round again and forcefully sat back down.

 

Willow stared at his back, strangely devoid of irritation at his disregard, his disrespect. No doubt Charlie was in a fuss about his behavior, but She was in the shadows, unwilling or incapable of walking in the damp Winter sunlight.

 

_That_ was what Wilson was. A madman wearing the skin of a gentleman, even when everyone was well aware of his instability, even when covered in muck, and even when there was no reason to waste his breath. It was like he believed, wholeheartedly, that he _was_ a gentleman. Like he wasn't mad.

 

Willow much preferred the disturbingly kindly Tall man to the harsh, crude, foolish little scientist in front of her now.

 

“What makes you think that I'll try to stop you?” Willow barked out a laugh, hiding pity under layers of disgust. “And what makes you think this is the way out? There's nothing wrong with enjoying the Worlds above, y’know.

 

“Tell me….” her eyelids drooped. “Tell me, why do you think that I'm  _ not _ tryin to kill ya?”

 

Wilson's head turned ‘round slowly, eyes bulging.

 

“Yer funny. Believe whatcha want, but yer gonna be wrong, again an’ again.” Her eyes were hard. “But I am o’ the personal opinion that ya might want to head back. Soon.”

 

At that last remark, Willow flinted away. The cold was a bugger, and she'd gotten rather tired of seeing Charlie lurk in the corner with too-sharp eyes.

 

Perhaps she'd been a bit too fast about the whole exchange, but Willow was not patient. It was cold and she honestly just wanted to go back home.

 

So Willow left Wilson alone, occasionally checking on him and immediately turning her attention away again when she saw he had died, twice, no, thrice, no-- well, when she saw that he was still trying, despite having died a dozen fold.

 

It was boring her, and so she turned back to what entertained instead of what confused. For now she would ignore her own frustrations with Charlie; the ghost was still with her, and surely that was enough.

 

She enjoyed the Full Moons the most, it seemed; while Charlie seemed to dislike any type of light (not including the lights below), she seemed to tolerate the Moon’s light enough to accompany her on her little midnight walks.

 

Maxwell was still just as disturbing and disorienting to be around, but he at least spoke to her. In fact, she was heading to his camp now.

 

The Door had long since been opened, but despite her best hopes, the other pawns had not grouped together; they scattered, panicked, and the likelihood of a return was slim. Maxwell had told her that she shouldn't have even tried, that she had, quote, ‘built the foundation of your Fall.’ Didn't the man even  _ hear _ himself? Besides, she had already Fallen. Nothing new there.

 

The librarian had, of course, departed with the little ghost child, no doubt disapproving of the Machine inhabiting the center of their camp. The innocent had stayed, possibly out of ignorance or perhaps some kind of loyalty to the Tall gentleman.

 

They never really stayed at the camp, however; instead they ran off to play with the spiders and sometimes with the ghost girl, who, Maxwell informed her, had a penchant for sneaking off with Webber.

 

Tonight, she sat under the glow of the Moon, basking in its dim array. Maxwell busied himself with cooking something inside a crooked, yellow pot. He kept looking out toward the forest, worry creasing his worn brow. He was worried about the innocent.

 

Willow had insisted on it - when she was younger, she had hated other children, believing them to be some alien insect parading around in a skin similar to her own so they could trick her. Now, as an adult, Willow found she was bemused with the little mites - ridiculous little things, plodding around the world like they knew the secrets everyone looked for. So she had taken the chance to finally meet the little creature that the Tall gentleman had, in fact, once died for.

 

Of course, the man had been resistant to the idea, but Willow was insistent. Charlie helped.

 

There was a rustling in the foliage nearby, and he tensed, shooting straight to high alert. Willow watched.

 

“Webber?” Maxwell called. “Web--”

 

“It’s me, we’re ok! I brought Wendy!” A smiling face, eyes squeezed into happy crescents, burst through the brush, dragging a pale, stumbling body behind them.

 

“We thought you’d like to see her! You’re always so--” They saw her. “Who’s that, Mr. Maxwell?”

 

Maxwell’s eyes seemed to grow out of his head, and despite his set mouth and brows, his eyes betrayed his anxiety.

 

“This is Ms. Willow. She has come to visit, so please, be on your best behavior.” Willow had to give the man some brownie points; his voice hadn't even cracked, despite his obvious discomfort.

 

The mite nodded, expression serious. The girl behind them walked on stilted legs, eyes glazed and staring, composure exact. What a strange child - while Willow only had interest in the poor, innocent child that Wilson, the  _ bastard, _ had dug up, the ghost girl would certainly add even more complexity to an already interesting evening.

 

As the two children sat down and Maxwell brought out bowls to serve the thick, bubbling stew, Willow began to wonder why she was  _ really _ here. Sure, she wanted to meet the little mite, and nettling Maxwell was like setting fire to a forest she was sleeping in; ultimately harmless, but definitely dangerous and fun. But Willow  _ was _ here for something else.

 

“You're thinking too hard.”

 

Everyone jumped, the soft voice, just as lilting as her gait, breaking their own isolated thoughts.

 

“Ask your question, Ms. Willow. I'm sure he has the answer.” And the little ghost girl rose from her resting spot and ambled out into the surrounding forest, into the nearby meadow. Webber shouted, bounding after her, and soon it was just Maxwell and Willow, alone once more.

 

“You have a question?” He was lying. He knew that she needed something, but had just agreed to the visit, had put up some ridiculous fuss to make her look foolish, and oh, how he was probably laughing at her idiocy--

 

“Willow? Little firestarter?”

 

Willow stared.

 

He sighed. “I can not answer questions I have not heard, Willow. You really have to stop doing this.”

 

Willow did not reply.

 

The fire crackled beside them, and Maxwell sighed again.

 

“Wilson got into the Third World.” She paused. “He hasn't gotten any farther.”

 

Maxwell stared, eyes wide.

 

“Is this how it is?”

 

Maxwell pressed his lips together, turning away from her.

 

“Willow, you have been a good Queen, a good Throne keeper. I thank you for that; you have made this world infinitely more pleasant.”

 

“That does  _ not _ answer my question.”

 

He sighed. Geeze, would he ever stop doing that?

 

“Wilson is insistent, and while I do not think he recalls his time as King, he is stubborn once he sets his mind to something.”

 

Willow glared, and they were plunged into silence.

 

Charlie muttered behind her, and she knew that She knew that Maxwell knew enough for his advice to mean something. Why he always was willing to answer her (and she knew that, at worst, he spewed white lies) with honesty was confusing. Willow knew he had his reasons, however, and she did not care to delve into them.

 

She left him in his silence, strangely regretful. Charlie seemed just as melancholy, wrapping Herself around Willow but just laying there instead of Her usual routine.

 

The Wilson Problem, as she came to call it, was a strange conundrum. In one hand, she was sure that what Maxwell said was true - that Wilson would continue to try, and try again, and try again - until he reached the Throne’s chamber. And Willow would die.

 

She didn't know why she thought she would die - all she knew was that she would.

 

She wondered if Charlie would be okay. They were close now, closer than she had ever thought they had been. Almost in an attempt to stop thinking, Willow actually began going into the dead of night with Her, walking in the darkness as she hummed and sang in that alien dialect. These midnight strolls were peaceful, and silent except for Charlie’s little songs and the occasional duet.

 

She wasn't going to regret living as she did now. When Wilson finally reached her, she would treat him as he was; a little mad maggot, envying  _ something _ and spewing hate and lies.

 

When he reached her. How amusing, that with a simple sad look from Charlie and a haunting word from Maxwell, Willow  _ knew _ that she would not be staying for long. But her trust in them was not to be investigated; there were other things to do, other things to be, and Willow had no patience for nonsensical musings.

 

The snow was crunching, crackling like fire. She watched the flames lick higher, higher, reaching up like a survivor searching for a benevolent hand.

 

She had set fire to an abandoned forest on an abandoned mountain, and she stood in silence, chilled, gifted coat wrapped ‘round her like a shawl of wealth. Charlie was away; it was early in the morning.

 

She turned back to the unconscious body that lay beside her feet, and a twinge of hot lightning struck her breast.

 

She wanted to twist his little head off, a skull clanking down to the forest floor like it was full of gears and machinery instead of flesh and blood.

 

The Throne had brought her here.

 

She had been waiting for Charlie to return, beset by a sudden wave of melancholy. And then  _ They _ snatched her, dragged her, and left her here, in front of the little foolish puppet that she oh-so-despised.

 

So she had set fire to the World, and now watched as precious resources blew away in wind and flame.

 

A groggy moan interrupted her thoughts, and she hissed out an incomprehensible half-thought before flinting away.

 

Charlie greeted her at her cage, her grave, her empty coffin.

 

She looked at Willow with a sad smile that wasn't  _ supposed _ to be, sensing her irritation. Willow struggled, briefly, in  _ Their _ grip, spitting venom.

 

She wanted. Oh, she  _ wanted. _

 

He reminded her that she was trapped, just as trapped as the rest of them, and even though she had someone like Charlie, Charlie was just as trapped - perhaps even more so. Everyone was trapped in this Hell, yet Wilson presumed to get  _ out! _ He presumed, and his foolish assumptions would kill her.

 

And she would die. And Charlie would  _ (forget) _ be alone, and wouldn't Maxwell laugh? Laugh and laugh and laugh, because look what happened to the idiotic little girl who  _ presumed _ she could ask  _ him _ questions!

 

A hand, cold against her twitching, dark cheek, and she inhaled sharply and flinched.

 

A soft hum, and a cheek pressed against her own.

 

Her head buzzed, ringing in and out of focus. There was a crawling, crying, needy thing inside her, and it moaned sadly in her ears, yearning for…. something.

 

Slowly, Willow relaxed against the shade’s rumbling chest, listening to the throaty pulse of a nonexistent, consumed heart and labouring lungs.

 

Blinking lights, and she went to sleep again.

 

Wilson reached her, chest puffed out, ribs sticking out like his blackened fingers.

 

She waited.

 

The ghost stood behind her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder blades. Willow stayed still.

 

The pillars burst to life, fire reaching higher, higher, and she stayed still. He walked up to her on creaking legs, eyes blown wide, whites glaring against his pupils.

 

He was surprised - at what? Willow thought he  _ knew _ what to expect - after all, this  _ was _ the way out.

 

“Just like you said, huh?” She smiled. With a flinch like that, she thought, he looked like he’d seen hell in her grin. “Just like you said. Tell me….

 

“Tell me, Wilson, if this is what ya want.” She leaned forward, and  _ They _ tightened their squeezing grip. “Hah, this is the way out, right, madman?”

 

He inhaled sharply, eyes glittering like hard fragments of diamond.

 

“You shouldn’t call gentlemen ‘madmen,’ Ms. Willow. In fact, I'd say that  _ you _ are the one that's mad.” He sniffed, posturing. “Look at you! All dressed to the nines, but with that beast behind you I doubt anyone would take a….

 

“ _ Thing _ like you seriously.” He snorted, grinning.

 

Like he'd won. She stared, eyes half-lidded, unflinching.

 

He walked forward, Key held tightly in his hand. The key she had given him, the key that he'd stolen without her even noticing.

 

She gripped Charlie’s hand, heart gone cold. Her tongue felt sour.

 

Then everything was dust and ashes.

 

* * *

She was breathing.

 

She was alive.

 

She inhaled, grass tickling her nose. She sat up.

 

She was in a forest, white with snow, but she wasn't cold. In front of her a lovely fire chuckled and laughed, jumping about its bed like it would live forever in the dust it left behind.

 

She was alive.

 

Willow breathed, rubbed her eyes, and tried to think, godsdamnit, but she couldn't, couldn't think past it--

 

Gods, she was alive. She was  _ alive. _

 

A thought broke through, at last, one of shadow and shallow touches and whispering lips.

 

Charlie. Where was Charlie? She must know that Willow was alive.

 

A piercing pain stabbed just at the back of her skull, and she cried out. A fire spread like a rash, roaring across her brain, and she could hear crying.

 

Willow folded in two, lungs cold. Her heart was sealing, was freezing, was closing a door she hadn't known was open.

 

Her memories - her memories, those irritating black pits --

 

She was trembling. Her hands were shaking.

 

The fire was going out.

 

On a stiff automatic movement of her hand, recalled from so much time, untellable, before, before --

 

The fire coughed, sparked at the damp wood she dropped in. Willow shook.

 

Wilson - Maxwell - the Grue --

 

She shook.

 

There was dullness in waking she had never thought she had ever experienced, but she knew she had. So much time before, Willow woke every morning as such. Every morning, grey glass cutting the sky, every fragment of grass screaming against the trees.

 

Willow kept to her little corner, kept the fire lit. She dug into the earth for bleeding black stones and sticks, hacked at bark and pine for wood.

 

Food was the large beetles inside the inedible crabapples she found near the trees. Food was the sickening feeling she got when she lay, catatonic, unmoving against her own mind.

 

She hasn't done that - Wilson hasn't done that - Maxwell couldn't have - Charlie? Charlie?

 

Why?

 

In her raging memories Willow was fire, screaming and uncontrollable, destroying her lovely forests and squeezing the necks of the lovely bloody hounds. In her howling memories Wilson was a sweet creature that kept to her side like glue, who disappeared into a Door that Willow  **_burned._ **

 

She shook, and hammered with bloody nails against blue wood, purple oil blooming across her unwelcome dirt face. So dirty, yes, so dirty, why hasn't Wilson said? He is crying, oh he always cries doesn't he? Where was Charlie?

 

A scream, bloody hounds coming, coming for her. They would dig those horrible teeth she thought were enchanting into muddy flesh, drag taunting talons along her until she was what she was and nothing more.

 

And Charlie wasn't coming. Why had she come then? Wilson had disintegrated like her own tongue, and she had screamed, and roared, and howled, and it was all  _ wrong. _

 

All of it, all of it, all of it.

 

She shook. The trees seemed to quiver about her, and she could see laughing flames licking higher, higher, higher --

 

And She had pressed Her hand against her forehead, and wiped it all away.

 

Maxwell, with his hidden grin, smiling at her, must've been thinking of what a laugh she was, and Wilson must've been shaking, just like she was shaking, and he must've been scheming, bright lights unlike the woods’ own light igniting his eyes, and a stake - yes, yes, a stake, driven through her back and shattering her pelvis, but that was just a memory of old women and terrified children.

 

Willow was a liar - and oh, what a liar. With flame between her teeth, she had sung of the end of the world and the pop of sizzling flesh and had laughed when Wilson hummed and Webber cried and Maxwell turned away. She was a liar. She was a liar. Where was Charlie?

 

She took it back, she took it back, the ghost that held her heart on a silver thread, tied back to her chest, she took it back, dearest, dearest, come back, I'm not a liar, I swear, I was just --

 

But Willow was lying again! Oh, what humour gripped their pulsating organs and hung them by the rafters!

 

That  _ bitch, _ She sneered, She drooled, She coughed and choked, She pulled out Willow’s insides like she was a spool of string, like a pig hung up and whitening without blood.

 

She had wiped away the memories of her scars and flaws, like Willow was a child that needed to be blinded to its own horrors. Willow was a horror, how could She? She had purged the horrific Willow and replaced her with some sack of cloth on string.  _ (no, no, come back, please, please, heart, come back, she was lying, she was losing--) _

 

Willow shook.

 

The fire laughed at her, and she kicked at it with its own dust. Her leg spasmed, weak, and she realized that she was dieing.

 

She laughed, and the fire cried.

 

In the cold morning air, surrounded by grey trees and grey air and white, white snow, Willow closed her eyes. The crunch of footsteps, approaching her corpse and coffin.

 

“Hullo?” A stick prodded her. She drowned herself in memories. “Ms. Willow? Mr. Maxwell said to come an’ get you.”

 

Multi-colored. She spun, was dizzy.

 

“Ms. Willow….”

 

The sound of fleeing footsteps. Willow relaxed back into her grave.

 

But Willow was a liar. She rose in moments and followed the indentations of quick, thin feet, following Webber’s tracks.

 

Maxwell knew. He knew most things. Maxwell would laugh at her and level his retribution, just like she had always known he would, before Charlie had pressed Her lips to Willow’s mind, before She plunged cold fingers into Willow’s shriveled heart.

 

She stumbled, once or twice, but kept on her way, unfeeling to the cold. She was unfeeling to most things.

 

The camp was white, white and white. Maxwell tended to the fire alone.

 

She screamed.

 

She howled.

 

Maxwell stared.

 

She collapsed beside him, and resolutely said nothing else.

 

He grunted at her, but followed her lead. But Willow was a liar, and she wanted him to speak, to cry, to scream, to bleed out that black polish that Willow had to scrub out of her wounds with snow, coloring the ice with it.

 

She lunged, fell, panted.

 

He said nothing.

 

“Answers? All everyone tells me are lies.” She laughed. “All I've ever told myself has been the truth! I'm not a liar!”

 

He could see it, could see it, she was  _ lying,  _ wasn't she, oh, naughty girls don't lie, Willow, doesn't she understand this? Now she has to go to Mr. Mister, and does she want that, no she doesn’t, correct Willow, now don't lie! But Willow was lying, she was lying, and Charlie would string the lies together and make a pretty necklace, and hide Willow’s pathetic nature. But this was all she had, didn't Charlie see that?

 

Maxwell tugged her ear, and spoke softly.

 

“It has been a long time, Willow.”

 

She tried to bite his fingers. He gazed down at her with half-lidded eyes, open wide with glimmering silence.

 

“Wilson has gone on to rest, and Charlie will take care of the poor child.” His eyes glittered, and Willow sobbed. “Charlie did care for you. She liked you quite a lot.”

 

She sobbed.

 

“It’s always a sad thing,” he whispered. “It's always sad, facing yourself for the first moment in your life.”

 

The morning was grey. The cut glass bit her cheek. Webber gave her his bread.

 

Maxwell ignored her.

 

She went out. Hacking wood felt better, better than sitting and burning, and listening to the sizzle-pop of hot blood in her mind. Better than aching.

 

She sliced a large maggot in half and seared its insides with boiling water. Thunder above and rumbling below, and Willow stumbled her way back.

  
And such was the way.

**Author's Note:**

> This is really awful and cheesy and awful but my sis really wanted it so here.


End file.
